The Color Gray
by RabbitRun
Summary: Natasha's been surrounded by gray for her entire life, and until this point, she thought she'd have enough of it. Now, as Clint lies unconscious in the midst of war, she would give anything to see it again.


My first Avengers fic. I own none of the characters. Reviews always appreciated!

_She was so sick of gray. In fact, if her life were a coloring book, she was pretty sure that whatever poor kid was coloring it wouldn't even need a Crayola eight-pack to do the job. Just a whole lot of gray. _

_Gray was actually the only thing that had stuck with her throughout her crazy twenty-five years of life; she couldn't remember a time when she wasn't defined by the lifeless color. She was born in the cloudy slums of Stalingrad and raised by faceless aging Russians with scraggly salt-and-pepper beards. She didn't remember much about her childhood—or maybe she chose not to—but she did know that no matter where she went, no matter where she was dragged, charcoal-gray walls surrounded her, shutting out the sun that was probably shadowed by clouds anyway. _

"This is Agent Romanoff; Agent Barton's been compromised. He's unconscious but stable. I need a team down here to take him to the med bay." She paused and put her hand back to her ear. "Now."

Letting out a sound that was a mixture of pain and exasperation, Natasha unclenched the fist clutching her earpiece and removed it, wiping it on her pants to rid it of the sweat that had built up over the past hour. Leaning against one of the catwalk's beams, she swept her eyes over the abandoned area. Most of the remaining agents had retreated to the core area of the ship to tend to the more imminent damage, leaving her alone with her partner's unmoving body—the unmoving body whose injuries she had caused.

She noted how eerie everything was without the bustle of other people running around barking orders and shouting into headphones; the only thing she could hear was the pumping of her own blood and Clint's harsh, ragged breathing, which came in short but steady gasps that matched her heart rate almost perfectly.

Natasha suddenly felt a sickening, angry jolt in her stomach, and her hand flew to her mouth to try and keep her from regurgitating what little food she had in her. Cold sweat drops trickled down her forehead, and she had to grab the nearby railing to keep herself standing as the world around her spun. It was too much—the explosion, the boiler room, Bruce's breakdown, that horrible, numb feeling of terror that only comes with complete and utter powerlessness. She hated that feeling more than anything else in the world.

And of course, fighting Clint. They had sparred together for nearly as long as they'd known each other, and occasionally they would initiate fake battles just to see who would win, but never like this. Never with the intent to harm—or in Clint's case, kill. Still clutching the railing, she shakily lowered herself down and put her forehead on her knees. Even with her eyes squeezed shut, she could still see Clint's steely blue eyes boring into her, feel his crushing grip on the back of her head as he forced his knife to her throat.

Natasha's head snapped up as footsteps echoed in the hall. Despite her initial relief, she felt anger rise in her chest when she saw the medical team arrive with empty hands; one of their top agents was down and they couldn't even think to bring a stretcher? Putting on a stoic face, Natasha hoisted herself up and turned to glare at the small brigade.

"Well, you certainly took your time. What happened, were they serving brunch in the dining hall?"

The head EMT's mouth opened in protest, but he quickly shrank back as Natasha's face hardened menacingly.

"Sorry, Miss Romanoff. It's been pretty hectic since... well, you know. We got busy," he finished lamely.

A short stretch of silence passed between the redhead and the apprehensive man.

"Jesus, do you need me to wipe your asses, too? Get him to the med bay! Now!"

Before the EMT could respond, the rest of the team rushed forward and grabbed Clint by his forearms, dragging him through the destroyed rubble. Natasha started forward to stop them—at this point she was tempted to strangle them all and carry him herself—but a wave of nausea hit her when she saw Clint's head loll lifelessly forward. She leaned back again and put her head in her hands.

"Agent Romanoff, do you require medical assistance?"

Natasha slowly lowered her gloved hand and looked at the man standing in front of her. He was more of a teenager, really; acne covered his face, and small patches of wispy blond hair spotted his chin, as if he were trying to grow a beard but puberty hadn't really caught up yet. She would give anything to make him her personal punching bag right now, but seeing as he hadn't really done anything wrong and she was probably just reacting to all of the stress caused by the events of the past hour or so, she decided against it.

"No. Just leave."

As he pattered away, Natasha thought she heard something about Coulson on her headpiece.

_Her life's color palate hadn't changed as she grew older, either. For years she trained in steel warehouses in which musty-smelling dust covered the floors and whose metal walls were covered in a thick layer of grime. The harsh environment surrounding her didn't help either; Siberia wasn't exactly known for being a tropical haven, and most of her journeys to the outdoors were accompanied by ominous black clouds bringing thick gusts of snow. The only thing that had stayed the same was her hair, whose fiery red provided a stark contrast to the rest of her monochrome person. Many of her benefactors had urged her to dye it black, but Natasha refused; she supposed it was her last attempt to salvage some sort of sign of life within her. And of course, when she actually started to go on missions, nothing changed; she found that she spent most of her time crouching in alley ways or surveying smoke-filled rooms of grungy clubs. Her safe houses provided no comfort, as the majority of them were located in seedy areas with uniform cement buildings that somehow served as home for hundreds of people. _

_Even when she wasn't tailgating the sleaze-filled ghettos of cities, gray seemed to remain a prominent theme. Most of her missions involved sweet-talking drug and weapons dealers, whose clienteles were far from short of aging men sporting silvering hair and dapper charcoal suits. However, she was no amateur in the ways of seduction, and most of the time she ended up walking coolly away from the scene of the crime covered in the mounds of silver the freshly dead men had gifted her with. Suffice to say that by the time she had reached her early twenties, she would be happy if she never had to look at the color gray again in her entire life._

_So naturally when she first locked her blue eyes with Clint Barton's steely gray ones, a mixed feeling of anger and irony formulated itself in the pit of her stomach. She supposed it was fitting that she die looking into the same stormy color in which she had spent most of her life, but still, she found herself wishing that her killer could have at least worn some color contacts. She couldn't remember how long she had looked into his eyes, waiting for his fingers to unfurl from the bow's string which would send the sleek arrow plummeting into her head; to her it had felt like hours, though in reality it had probably only been about half a minute. Finally he spoke:_

"_Good evening, Miss Romanova. I don't believe we've officially met. I forgot that just because I know everything about you doesn't mean you know who I am."_

_Natasha was startled by a sudden spark in his eyes, the likes of which she had never seen before. Until this point, every pair of eyes she had looked into was deadened and covered in a glassy film, reflecting the society they came from._

"_Cat got your tongue, Natalia? You speak eighteen languages, I figure that one of them has to be English." _

_Natasha's startled expression quickly soured, but she kept her voice even. "Sorry, Robin Hood. Normally I try to avoid making small talk with men who have a loaded weapon six inches from my skull." _

_Clint's face remained emotionless for a second, then broke into a smirk. "You're right, Nat; I guess I am being a little rude. Hold on for a second, would you?"_

_A sharp breeze grazed Natasha's cheek as the released arrow sailed past her face, landing with a heavy thud in the muddy ground. Before she even had time to react, Clint had pulled out a knife and was holding it where his bow had been pointed just moments ago. _

_Natasha frowned. "I'm sorry, but I don't really see the..."_

"_Geez, just hang on. For one of the world's top spies you're not very patient, are you?" Suddenly Clint's left hand darted from the dagger's shaft to grope the span of her thigh._

"_Hey, what the hell do you think you're—"_

"_Relax, sweetheart. Just making sure you're not going to try to bring any other friends into the conversation...ah, here we go," Clint mused as his hand reached her mid-calf, pulling the small gun out of its holster and tossing it to the side. "That's better. Now I have a little proposition for you, Tashenka. As you may have guessed, I've been sent here to kill you, and after seeing your impressive laundry list of accomplishments, I was pretty sure you deserved it. But after observing you for the past few weeks, I've changed my mind; you've got talent, Nat. Is that okay—Nat? Can I call you that?"_

_Natasha's eyes were aflame, and she could feel her clenched fists trembling from anger. Who the hell was this guy, talking to her with such familiarity, acting like he owned her? And he was enjoying every second of it—his dull gray eyes were gleaming with amusement, and he was making a visible effort to keep the corners of his lips from twitching upward into a gleeful smirk. He seemed to relax a little, and he had placed his knife back in his sheath; what an idiot. She could lunge forward and snap his neck in less than two seconds, and at this point she would have no problem doing so._

_So why wasn't she?_

"_I'll take that as a yes, then. Anyway, as I was saying, you've got talent—more than any of the agents who work at SHIELD. And believe me, it's not exactly a team of mall cops we got. These are ruthless trained killers who have trained for longer than you've been alive. And they've got nothing on you."_

_Natasha growled. "If they're so vicious, then how are they any different from me? How is what you do any different from what I do?"_

"_Because we're the good guys," Clint grinned. _

"_Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me. And I don't have loyalties, especially not to governments. I didn't want to work for Russia, and I certainly don't want to become some kind of Western bureaucratic puppet."_

"_We're not the government; a non-profit, if you will. And besides, if you think that you and we are so similar, then what's stopping you? Why not do the same thing you do now but with paid benefits and annual Christmas parties? Plus, if you refuse, well..." he absentmindedly stroked the length of his bow with his thumb. "Other agents may not be so easy on you." His eyes bore into her, probing her, testing to see how far he could go without exciting some sort of reaction. _

_For a moment, the two stared at each other, Natasha glowering and Clint wearing a patient, intense look. _

_Natasha suddenly snorted. "What are you, some kind of college recruiter? Do I put my name on an e-mail list and receive weekly coupons for foam hands with your name on it?"_

"_Something like that. Unfortunately foam hands are not on our list of merchandise."_

"_Well, make sure to put that in the suggestion box when you get back," Natasha spat._

"_Or you could. We're always looking for improvements from new employees; it shows initiative."_

_Natasha was starting to have trouble thinking of retorts to contribute to their little battle of wits. "Do you even have the authority to make this decision? Last time I checked, field agents don't equal program directors."_

"_Authority isn't really something I concern myself with. You probably understand."_

_Another staring battle ensued, although the intensity in Natasha's eyes had lessened and were beginning to show a glimmer of defeat._

"_Come on, Nat. You either come back with me and get a chance most normal people would kill for—the chance to start over, do something good with your life—or you could go back to living from paycheck to paycheck and be constantly looking over your shoulder for whatever new agent they send to do the job. And I doubt that he or she will be as...compassionate as I've been."_

_In one last attempt to resist, Natasha bore her eyes into his, trying to spot any hint of mockery or falseness behind his hardened emotional mask. If it were anyone else, she would have refused without hesitation—hell, she probably would have kicked his ribs in after "hello." But this man, this man was different. Earnestness and honesty unlike any she had ever seen before shone in his blue-gray eyes, eyes that made her feel like she was sitting naked in front of him while he drank it all in. And while it scared the hell out of her, it gave her a strange sense of calm, too. Nobody had ever looked at her like that before—like she wasn't just some killing machine with a sex appeal through the roof, but a human being, with feelings and needs and even fears. _

_Especially fears. _

_Finally, she gave a small sigh of acquiescence. "Fine. You've convinced me. I guess I'm kind of curious to see if your little company is everything you've shaped it up to be."_

_Clint smiled, seeming genuinely pleased and even...relieved? "I don't think you'll be disappointed, Miss Romanova—although just to warn you, you're probably going to have to change your name at some point. Not much, but enough to make it sound a little more American."_

_Natasha said nothing, but rose from her sitting position and began to follow him to his company-issued car parked a little ways off. _

"_Oh, and you might want to call me Clint. The Robin Hood thing is a little cliché. I have to admit, I thought you could do better." _

_His gray eyes twinkled teasingly before he turned around to focus on his path. For a split second, she wondered if poking them out would be a good idea._

Now she would give anything to see that beautiful, blue-gray color again. Hell, she would live the rest of her life in the color scheme of a black and white movie, just so long as he wouldn't open his eyes to reveal that cold, icy blue that inspired fear unlike any she had felt before.

Except for the fear that came when she thought about him not opening his eyes at all.

"Need a newspaper or anything, Agent Romanoff?"

Natasha turned to see one of SHIELD's nurses standing at the door, a carafe of water in hand.

"No. Thanks. Put the water on the table, though," Natasha mumbled, motioning towards the small nightstand that sat beside Clint's examining table.

"Sure thing, ma'am." The nurse, however, did not move, her eyes instead flickering between Clint's motionless body and Natasha's worn, almost grief-stricken face.

"You know, you have nothing to worry about, Natasha," the nurse said in a soft voice. "Agent Barton's a fighter; always has been. You did the right thing, and I'm sure he'll agree. Just try and relax—he'll be awake and back on his feet before you know it."

Natasha eyed the nurse wearily. She normally wasn't one for heart-warming, cheesy conversations, but it had been a long day and frankly, she could use some comfort. "Thanks, I guess. It's good to hear someone say that."

The nurse smiled but made no effort to continue the discussion; she appeared to have landed herself in Natasha's good graces—a feat that was difficult to accomplish among the SHIELD staff—but from the way the redhead was looking at her, she guessed it wouldn't last for long.

"You're welcome. I'll leave you two alone." She started to leave, but then turned back. "You know, they say that even when people are unconscious, they can still hear you. Just so you know."

With that the nurse exited the room, leaving Natasha alone with her comatose partner once again. Hesitantly, she reached over and clutched Clint's muscular rough hand with her own petite one, rubbing her thumb in small circles on the area between his thumb and forefinger. Sighing, she leaned down and rested her head on his chest, letting the rhythmic beat of his heart slow her own frantic one. What she wouldn't give for him to open his eyes and let her know he was okay, for her to be able to look into those solemn gray irises she had come to know so well since she first saw them. That color, that dull, lifeless color, had come mean everything to her, had come to embody everything that was good and true in her life. It represented her savoir, her lifeline, her best and only companion, and she would do anything just to see those eyelids flicker open to reveal it.

Slowly, Natasha moved her to rest against the side of his own, so that her lips were just centimeters from his ear. Taking a deep breath, she started to speak in a shaky voice.

"Hi, Clint. This is Natasha..." she started lamely. She felt so stupid, like she was talking to herself. Natasha Romanoff was many things, but sentimental was not one, and speaking to an unconscious body like some doting, helpless girlfriend made her feel almost pathetic. But for some reason, she continued anyway.

"I don't know if you can hear me... you probably can't... but I just wanted to let you know that I'm here. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for ever doubting you, I'm sorry I wasn't there when Loki attacked, I'm sorry we're in this whole mess. If I could have done something, anything, to stop this from happening, I would've. And I'd do anything to have been there for you. But it's too late, and now I've hurt the only person I've ever cared about. I'm sorry, Clint; I'm so, so sorry. You're the only one who's ever believed in me—the only one who's ever looked past my exterior to see someone worth caring about—and I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate that. And I know you're probably in pain, and you're probably confused and want to stay asleep until this whole nightmare is over, but you've gotta wake up, Clint. We need you to—I need you—to be here; we can't do it without you. I know a lot less than I pretend to, Clint, but I do know that you're the strongest man that I've ever met, and that you'll pull through this. But you have to wake up—please, just open your eyes, just let me hear your voice. I promise I'll be here as long as you need me."

Natasha felt a lump rise in her throat, and she quickly stopped talking. Talking to herself was embarrassing enough, she was definitely not about to cry. Instead she closed her eyes and moved her head to his shoulder. She didn't know how long she stayed like that, unmoving, listening to his heartbeat and taking in the warmth his body was emanating. Suddenly, she felt stirring beneath her, and a pair of eyes fluttered open.

She had never been so happy to see gray in her life.


End file.
